


burnt wings and cut hands

by remy (iamremy)



Series: askbox prompts (multifandom) [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s13e23 Let the Good Times Roll, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, i'm taking canon out in the back and shooting it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 17:15:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20709659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamremy/pseuds/remy
Summary: anonymous asked:For the prompt; if you’re still doing them: wings and Wincest, please. Thank you.





	burnt wings and cut hands

**Author's Note:**

> i liked the s13 finale, i did, but i'd have loved it even more if those last couple minutes hadn't happened. this prompt basically gave me the chance to write down what i'd have preferred, so thank you, anon!

Wings mean he’s dead. Wings mean he’s dead. Wings mean he’s dead wings mean he’s dead wings mean he’s dead–

Sam falls to his knees. His hands are shaking as he reaches out, touches the ashes just to be sure they’re real, just to know he’s not imagining them. They burn a little when his skin comes in contact with them, but it doesn’t stop him, not until he’s got both palms flat on the ground. The remains of Lucifer’s wings feel like ground glass under his hands, digging into his skin, and still he does not, cannot, move.

“Sam?” Jack sounds concerned.

“Wings mean he’s dead,” Sam murmurs.

“What?”

“Wings mean he’s dead,” Sam repeats, and lets out a laugh that feels like razor blades in his throat. “He’s dead, Jack. He really is _dead_.” His voice breaks on the last word.

“Yeah, he is,” Dean says, somewhere above Sam. “He finally is.”

Sam laughs again, and it comes out as a sob. His palms are bleeding, warmth pooling under them, and he still can’t bring himself to care, because Lucifer is _dead_, he’s dead, and the proof is in the ashes of his wings cutting into Sam.

He feels something heavy on his back and flinches, but it’s just Dean’s hand between his shoulder blades. “Sammy, hey,” Dean says, voice gentle, and then he wraps both arms around Sam’s shoulders and pulls him in close.

It’s a strategic move; Sam has to take his hands off the ground to balance himself or he’ll send both of them topping over, and Dean knows it. The instant Sam’s hands are off the floor Dean grabs them, using Sam’s own momentum to pull him to his feet. “Come on, sweetheart,” he says quietly, leading him away, even as Sam keeps turning around to look at the corpse on the ground.

Jack follows them, looking lost and exhausted, and Dean leads the two of them outside, into the cool night air. “It’s over, Sammy, it’s finally over,” he says, gently pressing down on Sam’s shoulders till Sam takes the hint and sinks down on the front steps of the church. Dean sits down next to him and Jack takes his other side, and the two of them keep him upright between them.

“He won’t come back?” Sam asks, grabbing Dean’s sleeve. “He’s really gone?”

Dean nods. “Yeah, Sammy. You saw it. Wings mean he’s dead.”

“Wings mean he’s dead,” Sam repeats, and closes his eyes, shuffling until he can rest his head on Dean’s shoulder. It’s not a comfortable position by any means, not when he has to curl up and practically contort himself, but Dean takes his weight immediately, wrapping an arm around his shoulders again. A moment later Sam feels Dean’s lips against his temple.

“He can’t hurt us again,” Jack says, sounding relieved, and then he takes Sam’s hand. Sam opens his eyes, wincing; his palms are scraped raw, sensitive as hell, and it feels like someone’s taken sandpaper to them – and yet he can’t bring himself to regret any of it.

“Sorry,” Jack says, and tries to let go, but Sam tightens his grip, holds on to Jack’s blood-warm, sticky hand.

“You’ve made a mess of your hands,” Dean murmurs disapprovingly.

“Had to see for myself,” Sam says. He’s so _tired_. He hadn’t known relief and joy could be this exhausting.

Dean softens immediately. “I’ll take care of it,” he promises. “Fix you up, good as new, all right, baby?”

“What about you?” Sam asks. “What about Michael?”

“He’s quiet for now,” Dean tells him, slipping his arm off Sam’s shoulders so he can take his other hand, his touch impossibly tender. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, okay, Sammy?”

It’s going to come back to bite them in the ass. There is no way archangel possession ends well. Sam knows this better than anyone else. Eventually, the other shoe is going to drop, and it’ll be a classic shitshow when it does.

But for now, he’s just too damn tired to think about it. His brain is stuck in an endless loop, replaying the moment of Lucifer’s death over and over, the image literally burned into his retinas. He’s been fantasizing this for so damn long, and now that it’s happened he’s having trouble convincing himself it’s real.

But it is. The burn in his eyes and the pain in his hands is proof of that.

“I’ll call Cas,” Dean says softly next to him. “And in the meantime, let’s get you fixed up, all right? Both of you.”

And here’s the thing. Sam’s in pain, dead tired, worrying himself sick over what’s going to happen to Dean now, and yet – and yet he has never been better.

There are wings cutting into his hands, and wings mean he’s _dead_.

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts? feedback? i'd love to know!
> 
> love,  
remy


End file.
